Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [107]
She delivered her set speech as it had been handed her at the house before the conference.
“A dreadful mistake has been made, which I have no doubt will be rectified soon. Our son is a gentle, caring young man; hurting another human being simply isn’t in his makeup. I ask that you in the press give us the courtesy of respecting our privacy during this trying time, and not judge our son until all the facts are known. Thank you.”
Questions flew from the assembled reporters, most of them about the alleged affair between the senator and Nadia Zarinski.
“I won’t dignify those questions with an answer,” Lerner said sternly.
“Will you take a lie detector test, Senator?”
“About what?”
“About the murder of the young woman from your office.”
Lerner ignored him and turned to the next questioner.
“Have you met with Nadia’s parents?”
“Unfortunately, no. My schedule has been especially busy, and they had to return to their home in Florida. But I look forward to meeting them in the near future.”
“Ms. Emerson, do you think any of this will jeopardize your chances to head the NEA?”
“No. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”
Clarise and her former husband disappeared inside his home. Mac had seen Annabel standing behind and to the left of Clarise, and was anxious to hear her perception of how it had gone. He didn’t have to wait long. She called on her cell phone.
“How was the lineup?” she asked.
“Amusing. I just saw some of the press conference. As awkward as it looked?”
“Yes. I need soul food.”
“Ribs and rice?”
“Spaghetti and meatballs.”
“Café Milano in an hour.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“THAT’S A WRAP.”
Ford’s Theatre’s stage crew had spent much of the day preparing for Thursday’s Festival at Ford’s telecast. Tours of the theatre had been cancelled for that day and the rest of the week leading up to the show. Sydney Bancroft had arrived at one that afternoon and attempted to inject himself into the process, to the chagrin of others.
“Why doesn’t he just go to a bar and get drunk, get out of our hair?” Johnny Wales muttered to a colleague as they completed erecting a flat. “He’s not worth a damn around here.”
“That flat should be moved a titch to the right,” Bancroft said from where he stood at the edge of the orchestra pit. The musicians had run through musical scores and were packing their instruments.
Wales ignored Bancroft.
“To the right,” Bancroft repeated, louder this time.
The director of the show, who’d been brought in from New York by ABC-TV, came to Bancroft’s side and said, “It looks good the way it is, Sydney. I think it’s fine.”
Bancroft failed to disguise his anger. “I’ve spent my life in the theatre,” he said, lip curled. “I know the way a stage should be dressed.”
“Yeah, well, this is TV, Sydney. Time to undress. We’re finished here for the day. See you tomorrow.”
Bancroft watched him walk away and involuntarily clenched his fists at his sides. “Television, indeed,” he mumbled. “Fools!”
Disdain for him and his suggestions were in abundant evidence that day. All his suggestions had been summarily dismissed, and the snide comments whispered behind his back weren’t lost on him. Clarise had told him he was associate director of the festival, which should have carried with it at least a modicum of respect. The truth was, she’d thrown him another bone, and he’d had to lobby even for that. He was impotent; he might as well be invisible.
HE’D STAYED IN BED until almost noon, although he’d awoken early and wasn’t tired. He lay under the covers paralyzed by fear, afraid to step out of bed and face another day of frustration and defeat. It was insufferably hot in the apartment, yet he shivered, and cried once when thinking about his childhood in England during the war.
He was three years old when his mother sent him from London to a safer place, a farming community two hundred miles north